Following
by SoloWolf
Summary: Ficlet: Orange's POV. An possible explanation for the wedding ring that we see Freddy put on in his apartment. Rated for swearing


Disclaimer: I don't own Reservoir Dogs, or any of the characters in the film. I own a CD of the soundtrack, but that's about it.

Oh, and please forgive any mistakes with American culture, language etc – I'm British and sometimes get confused.

The ring, yeah. That wasn't a part of the story we'd planned, but I guess I decided that it would make me more believable. No, scratch that. That's not the reason at all. It's superstition, nothing more, nothing less. Something to hold onto, something that would prove that I was still me, however deep I got into this shit. Which seems fuckin' weird really, seeing as I ain't married and never was. The ring belonged to my dad, and so it was a kinda family thing, you know?

My dad was a cop too, the best fuckin' detective on the force. Everyone said so, everyone told me so the day I joined up– 'you gonna be as good as your dad, kiddo? Your dad was the best cop I ever knew.' 'Your dad busted up one of the biggest drugs gangs in LA without raising an eyebrow.' 'Your dad was a fuckin' hero, Freddy, a fuckin' hero.'

I got so pissed off with it that I used to wish that my dad had been an accountant, a businessman, like everyone else's parents seemed to be when I was at high school. I was always under pressure to live up to the Newandyke name, to be as good as my dad. I guess that's why I took the job. It sounded dangerous, it sounded cool, and it sounded like the jobs my dad used to do, undercover in a major-league gang. I saw it as a chance to prove myself, I suppose. I was a stupid dumb fuckin' idiot. I realise that now. Too late, though, far too fuckin' late now I'm stuck with a bullet through my belly, dying in a situation that's my own fuckin' fault. Just like my dad. Ironic, I guess.

My dad got killed two days after my twelfth birthday. I was off school with flu, curled up in bed with a new comic he'd had bought for me that morning. He'd come into my room and sat on the bed, one arm round my shoulders, the other holding the comic just above my head, so I had to stretch to get it. It was a game we always played, ever since I was about six. He'd hold whatever he'd got for me just out of reach, and then bring it lower until I could grab it, before pulling it away again.

Anyway, that morning he'd brought me the comic, played the game, and then got up to go. As he reached the doorway he turned, as if he'd forgotten something, and then came back over to me. He ruffled my hair, and then whispered "You keep safe, kid, okay? I'll see ya when I get back. You can tell me all about what the Silver Surfer's up to this week, huh? You keep safe. See ya, buddy boy." And then he was gone. I suppose I should have picked up the fact that he was nervous, but I was just interested in my comic.

It was early that evening there was a knock on the door. I jumped out of bed, thinking it was my dad coming home, ran to the front door and peeped through the little window. I saw someone in police uniform, so I opened the door, still convinced that my dad had come home early to see me. Big mistake. Big fuckin' mistake. The man standing on the step was a stranger, but he looked friendly. He smiled at me, and bent down to my level. "Is your mom in?" he asked. I shook my head.

"I don't have a mom." My mom had died when I was a year old, so I didn't remember anything about her. I just knew that it was just me and Dad. Not any longer though. The man frowned, I remember that.

"Have you got any older brothers or sisters?"

"Nope." I was beginning to get a bit confused. Why did this guy want to know about my family? Where was my dad?

"I think you'd better come with me. What's your name, kid?"

"Freddy. Freddy Newandyke." I was seriously worried by that time, but I got in the car with the man, still barefoot and wearing my Speed Racer pyjamas, and we drove to the police station.

I suppose someone told me what had happened, because the next thing I remember is sitting on the floor in my dad's office, crying my eyes out, with a pretty young woman who worked in my dad's department sitting by me, hugging me to her. She was crying too, but she'd tried to stay calm, for me. They didn't tell me the whole story, or at least I don't think so. It wouldn't have made much sense to me then anyway – I didn't know about drugs, or prostitutes, or rape, or anything like that then. I just knew that my dad wasn't gonna come back, and that I'd never be able to tell him about the Silver Surfer's adventures again. For some reason, that was what hurt worst.

I got parcelled off to various relatives for the rest of my teenage years – my deeply religious granddad who thrashed the shit outta me when I was 14 for saying 'Jesus Christ' in church, my hippy aunt who smoked cannabis in the fuckin' lounge, my farmer uncle who taught me how to shoot, my second cousin who introduced me to smoking…

They were a pretty weird bunch, I suppose, but they were family, and they did look after me, in their own fashion. By the time I was 18, I moved into my own apartment, and decided to do what I'd always wanted to, follow in my dad's footsteps. My first proper day on the force, this guy came up to me and just hugged me, randomly. Turned out he was my dad's best friend, and my surrogate uncle, who I hadn't seen for years. He took me to his office, sat me down, and told me the real story of how my dad got shot. The story that no-one had bothered to let me know.

My dad had been working on this gang for months. They were a drug-running gang with a sideline in child prostitution, and they were the nastiest bunch of motherfuckers you could imagine. My dad's patrol busted them that day, got nearly all of them, but one escaped, and took a cop hostage. My dad chased after them, got in through the back window of their safe house, and burst into the room where the cop and the other guy were. The gangster put his pistol to the cop's head, my dad fired, and the cop ducked. The guy falls over, drops his gun, and he's lying screaming on the floor, 'cos my dad had popped a cap in his knee, but he still has a spare gun. My dad doesn't know that. He goes over to make sure the other cop is okay, and the guy shoots him in the chest. From practically two feet away. My dad shot him again, but it was too late. The other cops took too long to show up, and my dad died there, lying on the floor with the other cop cradling his head. That other cop was the guy who told me the story.

When he'd finished, he took something out of his pocket and put it in my hand. It was my dad's wedding ring. He said that my dad had told him, just before he died, that he was to give it to me when I turned 18.

So that's how I came to have it. Probably wasn't all that lucky, considering the fact I'm stuck here with a hole in my gut and blood all over me, all over the floor, all over Larry's hands. I guess my dad wouldn't be too proud of me making friends with a criminal. But I don't care. He'd understand. I wonder if you really see all your folks when you die. Perhaps I'll see my mom. Perhaps I'll see my dad. He _will_ be proud of me now. I'm fuckin' living up to, no, dying up to his name. Strange, that. Fuckin' ironic, I suppose. Oh god, I don't wanna die, not even if it means I see my dad again. All this pain isn't worth it. I have to hold on. For Larry, for Holdaway…and for my dad.


End file.
